


Rebirth

by LaMariposaRoja



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Reincarnation, Fallen Angel Castiel, On the Run, Thief Sam, theif Dean
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-06-21
Updated: 2018-10-27
Packaged: 2019-05-26 14:19:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,424
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15002684
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LaMariposaRoja/pseuds/LaMariposaRoja
Summary: Reincarnation is real. Dean Winchester – a well-known thief of supernatural artifacts – finds out that in his past life he was a renegade, a hunted criminal, a fallen angel named Castiel.





	1. Pulse

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by this post on tumblr: http://shixpe.tumblr.com/post/166758730064

Dean flips the blade in his hand, curling his fingers around the sharp edge in a careful grip. The action coming so easily to him – so naturally, like he’s done it a million times despite this being the first time he’s picked up the silver, tri-edged dagger.

He brings his arm up, circling back as he makes to throw the blade straight for the man standing just beyond his brother’s shoulder, his muscles moving in a memorized motion. The blade leaves his hand, slipping past the tips of his fingers as he releases it, his aim hitting its mark with such graceful precision that it surprises even himself. 

For a brief moment, Dean feels like a completely different person – a completely different being! A being with incredible power surging through his body, humming and pulsing under his skin, barely restricted by the caging of his bones. His head is swimming with memories that aren’t his own, displaying images in pools that drift in and out of focus as he rides on top of the rush. And when his vision focuses, he’s back in the hallway, standing beside his bewildered brother as he stares at the withering corpse, the shimmering angel blade sticking out from its twisted neck. 

“Dean. What the hell was that?” Sam pants. 

Dean doesn’t answer, his mind still tumbling as his body cools from the spike of adrenaline. What the hell, indeed. 

Unfortunately, he isn’t given much of a chance to figure it out as another man-shaped monster stalks around the corner, followed closely by a couple of his snarling friends. 

“We gotta move,” Dean barks, rushing forward to retrieve the blade, feeling the weight settle comfortably in his palm. He holds it up defensively as he throws an arm out towards his brother, protecting him while signaling for him to run. Sam gets the hint and takes off down the hall, slinging a brown sack over his shoulder, the instruments inside the fabric clinking together as he dashes. Dean holds his ground for a moment longer, staring down the beasts before he turns to follow Sam. 

Rounding a corner, Dean shoves his shoulder into a door, bouncing back a few times as the metal locking strains against his weight. Finally, he manages to force it open, diving through the doorway and slamming the door shut just as the banging of fists clatters against the wooden surface. Dean looks around the room, searching for any other means of escape inside the small hotel room. His green eyes lock onto the open window, the wind blowing the sheer curtains lazily as if to beckon him forward. Dean rushes over, gripping the aged wooden sill and pushing it up high as he pokes his head out, grimacing at the six story drop below. The banging on the door grows more and more violent until the abused wood finally gives way, splintering into thousands of pieces as the leader of the monstrous pack saunters his way inside. Dean is out of options – he has to jump. 

The howling wind rushes past his blood-rushed ears, ruffling his leather jacket and flannel shirt as they flap about behind him as he soars. He kicks and flails his arms about wildly, but his grip never falters from the silver dagger in his right hand. The black pavement of the parking lot grows closer and closer as Dean yells, trying to orient himself in a way to lessen the impact of the inevitably bone-breaking fall. He shuts his eyes and braces at the last possible moment, holding his breath for when he hits the ground…but it never comes. 

Dean opens his eyes gingerly, wincing as his blown pupils adjust to the blinding white light radiating from all around him, starkly contrasting the shadowy night scene he had just popped out of. He’s standing, feet firmly on the ground and he’s perfectly safe. Except, safe where? 

Dean’s shoulders tense as he readies himself for some sort of fight, this has to be some kind of illusion those demons had forced him into. He wasn’t safe. This was a trap! He holds the angel blade out in front of him, the shiny metal surface glistening luminously in the white void. Dean’s eyes scan the empty area all around him, hardly noticing when the reflecting light on the blade is slowly absorbed into it, filling the metal with an otherworldly, emanating glow. 

Dean yelps and drops the blade, hugging his right hand close to himself as his palm stings from the searing heat. The blade clatters heavily to the floor, ricocheting off the razor-edged tip to its hilt a few times in what seems like slow motion. The noise resonates throughout the empty space, filling Dean’s ears with the ringing sound as if there were church bells going off inside of his skull. He drops to his knees, gripping his ears with his hands as the echoing pervades. It’s deafening! His head feels like its about to explode! 

But then, the sound stops – suddenly and without warning. Dean breathes heavily against the ground for a few moments before his eyes shoot open and he hauls himself up. A fuzzy silhouette catches his attention from his peripheral vision as he jumps to his feet, muscles once again tensing for a tussle. He calls out to the figure, yelling threats riddled with obscenities as he warns the person to stay back, but his voice doesn’t sound. His posture falters for a moment as he tests his voice again, coughing and clearing his throat, thinking that the problem is just a minor hindering of the vocal cords; but it’s not. 

Dean can’t speak. 

The revelation rattles him to his very core. Setting blaring sirens off inside his brain as he tries to keep his raised fists steady, not wanting to give the opposing figure any clue to his frightened state. The figure advances slowly, taking measured footsteps that click softly against the white floor, reverberating ominously in the endless space. 

Once the shadowy figure is within range, Dean springs forward, grabbing the angel blade from the ground and swishing it through the air as he slashes viciously. The expressionless figure deflects the blows with ease, the sharp edge glancing harmlessly past its sides as it parries Dean’s attack with its bare hands. Dean growls and readies for another go, adjusting the blade in his hand as he plunges it down into the shadow man’s heart. Dean steps away, triumph spreading across his guarded expression. The figure stills, hands falling to its sides as its head bows slightly, almost as if it were looking to the hilt sticking out from its chest. 

Dean gawks as its head rolls back up, directed towards him as it lifts a hand to grab the shimmering metal and pulls it out in one slow, fluid motion before dropping it to the ground. 

The ringing from earlier rivets Dean’s brain, but it’s not as abrasive this time as Dean only curls into himself slightly while still keeping to his feet as he backs away from the dark figure – seemingly unscathed by the piercing to its core. 

He wants to ask who the figure is, or at least what it is, but his voice still fails to make it past his lips. The humanoid steps closer, raising a hand outward towards Dean as it closes the distance between them. Dean panics, turning quickly on his heels and sprinting away as fast as he can. But, he only makes it a few strides before his boots skid to a stop, the dark figure standing right in front of him. Impossible! 

Dean tries to run in the opposite direction, but the same thing happens as the shadowy ghost reappears before him, this time catching him by the forehead with two fingers extended to press against his perspiring brow. Dean tries to scream, but the air provides the loudest silence as his lungs struggle to breathe properly. His heart races as his vision blurs at the edges, the dark figure pushing something into his mind via its fingertips. Dean’s body convulses for a second as his mind is wracked with hundreds upon hundreds of memories – the sounds and images, smells and sensations swirling all around him in random patterns that feel like they should be familiar, but aren’t. They aren’t his! But why does he feel like he’s seen all these events before? Witnessed everything from a first-person point of view? It doesn’t make any sense! 

A building pressure roils deep in his gut as he struggles to keep his head above water. His very being feeling like its being tugged out of his body and morphing into something else. Something larger and much more powerful; something dangerous.

Dean lurches to the side as he pulls away, breaking the connection instantly as the dark figure melts and disappears. Dean collapses heavily to the floor, coughing and sputtering as he tries to focus his brain to reconnect with is body. He drags himself over to the discarded angel blade, waving it around as he lies on his back. Whatever that ghost did, it really affected him, causing his legs to feel like foreign lead pipes instead of familiar flesh and bone. He can’t get to his feet, but he’s not down for the count yet! 

He scopes with the blade at the empty air for what feels like forever, not seeing anything like the dark humanoid shadow. But he doesn’t let his guard down. He steadies his breathing as he listens for the resounding footsteps – they’re getting closer! 

Closer. Closer. Step. Step. Step. Until it sounds like they’re right on top of him – but he sees nothing! His greens eyes search frantically but come up with nothing. The damn thing is keeping itself hidden from him! 

Suddenly, a violent stinging in his shoulder jolts his body, the firm grip of a hand burning through his layers of clothing and making him feel like his skin is melting off! Dean writhes uselessly as he tries to get away from the fiery hand, slashing at where the connecting arm should be but isn’t. He kicks and punches but can’t land a single hit as the burning continues. His mouth opens again to let out a scream that won’t sound, ripping through his throat with scratchy claws like a caged tiger, savage and frightened. The feeling takes him over, filling him inside and out until he can’t feel anything anymore: like he’s floating. 

He floats. Adrift on his back amidst an eye of a raging hurricane that rocks the glistening seas surrounding him, crashing the waves ferociously against an invisible forcefield as the roiling waters are corralled away from where he calmly drifts. The cool waters around him lapping at his temples, splashing droplets onto his face as he blinks it away. His brain is tired and confused as he tries to comprehend what is happening – where he is. His eyelids feel heavy and he soon looses consciousness, sinking below the water’s surface and into the depths. 

A hand at his shoulder jolts his mind again, shaking him awake as a voice calls out to him. 

“Dean! Dean! Hey, hey, hey! Are you alright? Talk to me!” 

“Sammy?” 

“Oh, thank God!” Sam exclaims as he pulls his brother close to his chest, puffing relieved sighs into his short brown hair. Dean settles into the embrace as he slowly becomes aware of his surroundings, recognizing the interior of the Impala beyond Sam’s broad shoulders. Dean brings a hand up to pat his brother’s back, reassuring him before Sam leans away, sliding back into the driver’s seat. 

“What the hell happened?” Dean groans as he slides up into a sitting position. 

“I was hoping you could tell me,” Sam retorts. He’s still facing Dean in his seat and the car is parked, but Dean notices that the scenery is different from the outside of the hotel they were at. Now, instead of buildings and street lights, all he sees are trees and a distant, abandoned-looking barn. 

“Dean, what happened after I left you in that hallway? I heard you run into one of the rooms, but that’s the last I saw you before I found you passed out here in the passenger’s seat.” 

Dean ruffles his brow, “You found me here?” Sam nods grimly. “Huh. Well, I don’t really know. Those demons chased me into one of the rooms and the only way out was out the window-"

“You jumped from the sixth floor!” 

“Yes, genius. I jumped.” 

“But how- How did you…” Sam sputters for a moment, trying to collect his words as he does his best not to have a panic attack from his brother’s story, “Okay, so you jumped. Great. But how did you make it to the car before me? A fall like that should have broken something important.” 

Dean’s mind draws a blank, he has no recollection of getting into the car. He doesn’t even know how he managed to hit the ground running, so to speak. He wasn’t even sure if anything he remembered was real or not, it felt too much like some sort of dream or a bad acid trip. What could it have meant? All those memories and feelings? Who was that figure he saw? What did it want with him? Dean had so many questions, but no answers to satisfy any of them. All he had was the angel blade that lay heavily in his lap. 

He picked it up in his hand, wincing slightly as he felt a sharp pain in his left shoulder. Studying the blade provided no answer but inspecting the cause of his shoulder pain…Well, it didn’t provide the answers he was looking for, but it did prove something.

“Is that a handprint?!” Sam gapes as the raw, angry red flesh in the shape of a five-fingered grip set right on Dean’s upper bicep. Dean has no answer as he wordlessly looks up with worried eyes. The two brothers share a moment in silence before Sam finally speaks up, “Alright. You know what, let’s just save this for another time. You’re here. You’re alive. And we got what we came for,” He gestures to the blade in Dean’s hand and the brown sack tossed into the back seat, “Right now, lets just worry about getting back to Bobby’s so he can explain to us just what the hell is up with this stuff he told us to steal.” 

Dean nods, “No complaints here.” Sam starts up the engine, readying to get back on the road. Dean adds a quick comment about Sam making sure not to run his Baby into a ditch while he takes a nap, which Sam responds with a snide remark and his classic bitch-face. 

Whatever happened tonight, Dean wants to put it as far away from his mind as possible. He has a job, a brother, and a reputation to look after; he’s not about to lose it all over some freaky vision.


	2. Anamnesis

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dean leans idly against the doorway leading to the kitchen, tuning out the conversation between his brother and father by proxy. He means to pay attention, but their voices grow distant as his mind wanders to a faraway place.

                    The drive through the night goes by in a blink when Dean wakes to the familiar smell of diesel fuel and rusting oxides. The gruff sight of banged-up cars stripped of their paint and mangled scrap-piles in heaps along the pebble-speckled lawn (if you can even call the brown patches of dirt a lawn) greets his weary eyes with a friendly fuck you. Must mean they made it to Singer’s Salvation.

                    Sam pulls the break lever and cuts the transmission, the low humming pulsing through the leather seats ceasing as the engine ends its velvety purr. He opens his door first, unbending his ginormous body from the cramped space of the driver’s seat, stretching and twisting his arms legs and back to shake his muscles loose again. He yawns, scratching at the subtle shadow of a beard on his chin and wiping at his eyes. Despite staying up all night to play the chauffer a small smile hangs on Sam’s face, he’s feeling pretty refreshed from a successful job. Opening the back door on the same side, he reaches in and slides the brown sack of items over to him, clattering the various materials inside as he slings it back over his broad shoulder.

                    He notices his brother’s sluggish movements as Dean wakes from his side of the car.

                    “Morning, ugly!” Sam chirps.

                    “Shut up,” Dean grumbles with a yawn, mimicking the same motions as Sam within the minimal space available to him. Dean notices the sack over Sam’s shoulder. “You count the score?”

                    “Not yet. I figure we’d wait for Bobby to give us the details. I honestly don’t know what half these things are. Feel expensive though.”

                    “Good. It’s about time we hit it big. First thing I’m gonna do with my cut is stay in a fancy hotel: five-stars, room service, the whole nine! And an actual bed, for once.”

                    Sam snickers, “Don’t pretend like you don’t enjoy those stupid motel beds. You have an unhealthy relationship with the magic fingers feature. “Dean smiles to himself, humming as he thinks of those pleasureful vibrations massaging his muscles as the lumpy mattress cradles his body. “Ew! Get up, dude. We need to get inside to actually talk to Bobby. And he doesn’t need to see that gross grin you’ve got on your face,” Sam chides as he leans out of the car, “Neither do I,” he adds as he slams the door shut.

                    Dean follows his brother out of the car and they both head up the squeaky porch steps of the blue-sided house as they go to knock on the front door. It opens quickly enough, and the Winchesters share their greetings with the grumpy faced elder as he leads them inside.

                    “So, how’d your little business trip go?  You make good on your end?”

                    Sam plops the heavy sack onto Bobby’s jumbled desktop, the various materials rattling with a dull clunk. “Got ‘em all here, Bobby.”

                    “Glad to see you ain’t busy,” Dean mocks as he inspects a set of car keys with dust collecting on the hanger is hangs from.

                    “Hey! I’ve been bustin’ my ass digging up the intel – you boys are the ones limber enough to steal the goods but without me, you got squat.”  

                    “Yeah, yeah,” Dean waves him off, used to hearing the usual excuse for why he sent them out to do the dirty work while he got to sit in the comfort of his own home.  

                    Bobby shakes his head and turns back to address Sam, “Anyway, I’m glad you both made it back here safe. I know it was a tall order I asked of you.”

                    “We’re good, Bobby. Most of it was easy in and out – “

                    “Up until the _demons_ caught on to us turning them over,” Dean finishes for his brother.

                    “We made it out though,” Sam reasserts himself, “And we did the job just like we said we would.”

                    Bobby nods in sincerity and appreciation for their good work.

                    “The blade?” he asks in a gentle command.

                    Dean fumbles for a bit, patting at his lap and remembering that he’d left it in the car.

                    “Here,” Sam offers as he holds the silver dagger up from the bag.

                    Dean blinks, “When did you put it in the bag?”  

                    “While you were asleep,” the unspoken _duh, dipshit_ is implied by Sam’s pressed lips and short tone of voice. Bobby takes the blade before the two brothers can start up another idjit’s quarrel. He turns the cool metal in his hand, inspecting it reverently from the knobbed hilt to the honed tri-edged tip. He runs his fingers along the crafted grooves and divots, and carefully over the glistening edge, wincing slightly as a bead of red bubbles from one of the pads that pressed with just too much pressure.

 “Ain’t this a sight,” he mumbles to himself.

                    “What’s up with it?” Dean asks with terse time for sidetracking, “Why is it so important that we had to wrestle a gang of demons for it?”

                    “Now hold your horses, Cinderella. I’ll get to the explaining without your squeaky complainin’, thank you.” Dean balks indignantly but settles himself with his arms crossed over his chest, tilting his chin for the man to get on with it. Bobby continues with his silent evaluation, rotating the blade carefully to grip it tightly in his left hand as he holds it out with one eye closed, as if it were a scope or an extension of his arm. “Incredible.”

                    “Bobby,” Sam interrupts with a polite cough, “That thing can kill a demon. _Kill_ it! What kind of weapon wields that sort of power?”

                    Bobby huffs a sigh as he reels his arm back in, holding the dagger near himself as he begins to speak. “I told you what it was, right?”

                    “Yeah. An angel blade or whatever,” Dean supplies, “But what’s so great about a prissy knife?”

                    Bobby blinks at the boy, “Are you stupid? What do _you_ think is so important about something with ‘ _angel’_ in its title?”

                    Sam furrows his brow, “You’re not implying…”

                    “Oh, I’m doing more than just implying. I’m saying: this is an authentic angel’s sword.”

                    Dean scoffs, “Yeah, right! You expect me to believe angels are real just because we have a silver stick with its name written all over it?”

                    “You got a better interpretation?”

                    “Well, yeah! _‘Angel blade?’_ That’s the same marketing crap they pull to make something sound mystical ‘n shit to sell you something – like the ‘God particle’ or ‘The Great Pumpkin’. I’m not buying it.”

                    Sam turns to his brother, “Dean, you saw what that blade did. _You_ were the one that threw it! That demon was gonna pounce and you killed it with barely a second thought of whether the stunt would work or not.”

                    “How did you know?” Bobby begs the question.

                    “I don’t know. Just had a feeling, I guess,” he answers lamely, “Call it a hunch?”

                    Bobby squints at him, “Well, call it a hunch, but I think you’ve already figured out the punchline.”

                    “And that is?” Sam probes for clarity.

                    “That I sent you boys out to fetch me an angel blade from a legitimate fallen angel.”

                    The room’s musty atmosphere weighs down on the tartan clad brothers as they process the man’s words. Sam’s features seem to brighten while Dean’s dwindle into dubious anger. Before the former outshines the sun and the latter suffers from self-induced dyspepsia, Bobby sets the blade down as he sits behind his paper-strewn desk and pulls up a book – it’s faded title hanging from the loose leather binding, worn and tattered with the abuses earned with age. He flips through the yellowed pages, carefully leafing through the unattached segments as he searches for a particular passage.  He finds it with a resolute finger to the page.

                    “And lo the agents of God, magnificent servants of the Heavenly Host, embarked with the task begotten to them by their Father. Many a battle would they fight, those warriors of light, but prevail they shall; for He has blessed them with the strength of the Most-High as He bequeathed to them what terrible wrath lives in creation; a fearsome weapon that smites all that is wicked and spares none.”

                    He picks up another script, this one fresher-looking and already opened to the correct page:

                    “..for gripped tightly in his righteous intent was the shimmering blade from heaven. The weapon that would smite the Devil and all his children born of darkness, turned from light. ‘Lay down, morning star, son of dawn!’ spoke the angel thusly, ‘Yield now to the justice that befalls you or perish in the misdoings of your treacherous sins.’”

                    The old bookkeeper cards through a few more passages, all of which cover the same gist of the existence of angels as warriors of God and special weapons that they possess to aid in their offensive against the Devil – nameless instruments that, upon vague descriptions, the boys assume to be the angel blade that lay coyly on Bobby’s lackadaisically organized desktop.

                    “And so on and so forth. You get the picture,” Bobby finishes with a prosaic drawl and a firm thud as the leather-bound book is clapped shut. Sam and Dean share a look, but it’s clear that they have different emotions behind what they’ve just heard about the ancient artifact they stole.

                    Sam speaks first, “So, this is the real deal?”

                    “Seems like it,” Bobby affirms.

                    “What about the part about the ‘fallen angel’? How can you be sure that it’s not..” he trails off, trying to collect his thoughts, “I mean, we found it with a group of demons protecting it. How can you be sure it’s not hell’s weapon?”

                    “You mean Lucifer’s?” Sam winces upon hearing the name but nods all the same. Bobby gestures to the papers strewn about his desk, “Collectin’ the lore certainly wasn’t a cakewalk, but I managed to piece together a plausible tale. Mind you, it isn’t perfect, and the translations aren’t exact—”

                    “Just cut to it,” Dean demands impatiently.

                    Bobby grumbles a disgruntled comment aimed at the freckled heckler under his breath before summarizing the good bits: “As far as I can tell, Lucifer wasn’t the only angel to fall and be hunted by heaven. In fact, there was some kind of catastrophe that sent all the angels sprawling to earth. Something called ‘The Fall.’ Apparently, it was caused by a renegade angel sometime within the last ten centuries – not exactly clear on when, or if that really matters relative to the clocks upstairs – but after The Fall, all of the angels were seriously pissed at the bastard that locked the gates. They spent the next however many decades hunting down the sorry son of a bitch to the ends of the earth – ‘a righteous vendetta’ as some of the texts call it. Loads of angels died in the fighting, if not originally from the plummet to bedrock. The angels that survived eventually captured the ‘fallen one’ who they held responsible.”

                    “Did they kill him? The ‘fallen one’?” Sam asks when Bobby lulls in his retelling of the story.

                    Bobby shrugs his shoulders, “Can’t say for sure. I’m assuming so ‘cause this is supposed to be his sword here,” he points to the angel blade present, “Don’t suppose he’d just give it up without a helluva fight, though. Must have been one badass angel to have avoided capture for so long.”

                    “So, he wanted to be caught?”

                    Bobby shrugs again. “That or he got sloppy somewhere.”

                    Dean leans idly against the doorway leading to the kitchen, tuning out the conversation between his brother and father by proxy. He means to pay attention, but their voices grow distant as his mind wanders to a faraway place. A place where a carnage lay waste to farmlands – village houses burnt to the ground and piles of bloodied corpses rotting the salted earth. The horrible stench of roasted carcass and the iron-like tang of blood pervade his mouth and nose. His ears ringing with the piercing screams of a woman, of her crying children, as she shields them with her battered body, crowding them against a toppled brick wall as she waves an arm out to hold off a domineering shadow – Dean’s shadow! Or, whatever shadow he casts with his body as he watches the horrific scene unfold. Crimson moisture, hot and thick, clings to his palms when he looks down at his hands; in his grip lay the angel blade, the shining metal glistening just as brightly as ever, despite the slickened scarlet edge.

                    Dean’s stomach lurches as a sense of queasiness overtakes him, his body tensing as the scene abruptly changes from a land of suffering to a fast-paced scenario in which he is the star player in the midst of a full-out brawl. The clang of metal on metal echoes from the blade at his hand as it is used to deflect his vicious attacker, pushing the scornful face of the young man away. Dexterously, he spins the blade in his grip as he turns, striking it downward to be sheathed deep in the chest of an older woman who failed to sneak up behind him. Dean winces as a bright, piercing white light erupts from her body as she screams – the high-pitched shriek rising into a deafening crescendo. The blazing white heat consumes Dean’s field of vision, forcing him to shut his eyes as his mind turns to another event. This one even more confusing than the last as he’s tumbling bodily from the sky. His body is spinning and flailing in vain as he can’t find his bearings from the high velocity at which he’s careening through the scorching atmosphere – the very atoms of his being feeling like they’re being ripped apart and mangled to shredded tatters in the scalding cocoon of fire. His lungs burn with the soundless screams that are drowned out by the sound of something like branches snapping from beyond his shoulders. His spine arches violently, wracking his body with electrifying pain that dulls the rest of his senses until the only thing he can register is absolute agony!

                    He’s burning up!

                    “Dean!”

                    Dean opens his eyes abruptly, focusing slowly from the double vision of his brother’s worried face as he’s shaken into the present. Beyond his brother is Bobby: his face painted with the same concerned expression as Sam’s.

                    “Dean? Dean, what’s going on with you?” Sam implores, helping Dean into a chair when he wobbles on his feet.

                    Dean groans with his head in his hands, “What the fuck was that?”

                    “What was what?” Bobby pitches in.

                    “I- I don’t know. One minute, I’m standing here listening to you guys talking and the next thing I know, I’m flashing though some goddamn horror show!”

                    “What does that mean?” Sam asks.

                    “You think I know?!”

                    Bobby clicks his tongue, “Calm down there, boy. We’re just trying to help-“

                    “MIND YOUR BUSINESS, OLD MAN! YOU KNOW NOTHING ABOUT WHAT I’VE BEEN THROUGH!”

                    Sam and Bobby stare scandalized by Dean’s outburst. Dean himself gawks at his own behavior once the seething anger dies down enough for him to register just what he blurted out. A pinkish heat rises to his cheeks. But instead of dealing with the situation like a responsible person should, Dean fleas like a coward, standing abruptly from his chair and darting out the backdoor towards the car lot with little but a hurried “I need some air” thrown bitingly over his shoulder. He can’t explain why, but he just needs to get away from their prying eyes – their questioning stares probing his psyche the wrong way in the moment, making him feel immensely vulnerable and irrationally defensive. 

                    His head is still reeling from the jarring reverie he was pulled out of, feeling like his skull is stuffed to the seams with swabs of cotton and held together with butterfly bandages. What is up with him recently? Ever since their last heist, he’s been feeling less and less like himself – like something else is trying to take control of his body!

                    He clutches at his shoulder, the raw flesh of the burn-mark pulsing slightly below the surface of his skin, aching with a mystifying sense of…of… Dean can’t quite put his finger on it. Pain? No, it doesn’t hurt; more so it itches like a bitch! But there’s something else. Something that translates more to the hollow ache in his gut and the twisted throbbing in his chest; the steady flow of guilt and remorse mixing in his veins as if in response to the conversation from before.

                    _The Fall_.

                    Something about The Fall keeps repeating itself in his runaway brain, whispering to him over and over in a maddened rambling, on and on in a language he can’t understand! That is, if you can even call it a language – a barrage of colors and smells and tastes thread through his mind and soak the fabric of his being with an essence that just screams regret!

                    But why? Why is all this happening to him? What does it even mean? Dean lets out a frustrated growl as he kicks a pile of bald tires. He’s about as close to figuring this out as a one-legged man’s chance at winning an ass-kicking contest. Irritated, he plods on amidst the other totaled cars in the rust garden, hoping that a little walk in the fresh air really will help to clear his head.


End file.
